‘Did they win?’
‘No, not entirely.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘A lot died.’
‘Is it all right when a lot of people die?’
‘No, not really. But sometimes … it happens when people fight for a good cause.’
‘What is a cause?’
‘Something people believe in. Some people want to change the world to make it better.’
‘Old Peter says people just want to change things to suit their fancies.’
‘Old Peter’s a cynic.’
‘What’s a cynic?’
‘A Greek—’
‘For heaven’s sake, Matthew, do be quiet. My head aches with your questions.’ Mother rubbed her temples with a finger from each hand. Her fingers were delicate, the white of a sapling peeled down to its inner, unprotected core. Her nails glistened like wet pippy shells. With circular, repetitive somnolence her fingers stroked. Round and round and round. Matthew felt his own skin tightening, loosening, tightening, letting go. The fingers hesitated and then began again massaging, stroking, whirling him away.
‘Let him be, Margaret. I don’t mind answering him. How is he to learn?’
‘At school. I hope.’
‘Not well enough. He has a dreadful teacher. She fills his head with the worst sort of chauvinistic rubbish. The Empire—right or wrong.’
‘Everyone thinks like that now. I’ve been invited to play the piano at a musical soiree to raise money for the war effort. Everyone will be there. I think I’ll take Matthew. It’ll be good for him. You’d like to come. Matthew?’
‘Will you play Mr Schubert, Mother?’
‘Great heavens. He was German. I’d be hooted out of town. I shall play some Irish songs: “Galway Bay”, “The Mountains of Mourne”, maybe “Mother Machree”.’
‘And what is the difference between German and Irish songs?’ asked Gran. ‘The British are at war with Germany now. They’ve been at war with Ireland for centuries. It’s so typical of their arrogance. Slaughter the Irish and appropriate their music to serve their own Victorian sentimentality.’
‘I like Irish songs. Everyone likes them.’
‘Of course. They wallow in the nostalgia of the dispossession they have caused. And feel no guilt.’
‘Well, I intend to play them. They’ll go down well. I’ll tell them I’m Irish and I shall take Matthew in a green velvet suit.’
‘Margaret!’
‘Dark-green velvet vest and knickerbockers and a cream silk shirt. And I’ll wear a cinnamon skirt and jacket and a cream blouse—and a straw hat with a big cream rose. We’ll stun them, Mother. They’ll call us the good-looking Donahues.’ She smiled at the thought.
‘What about practising now? Come, Mother. You haven’t sung for years. You loved to sing.’
Margaret snatched the book from her mother’s hand and tossed it on the settee. ‘Come on. Come on.’ And she pulled her into the parlour. Throwing open the piano stool she tipped music books onto the floor as she searched for her Irish songs.
‘Here. Here they are.’
She spread the book on the piano stand, curtseyed to her mother and Matthew, lifted her skirt, settled herself on the stool and began to play. Sarah said nothing. Head slightly inclined she listened to the first verse. Margaret bent over the piano, stroking and pressing the keys as she had her forehead, and the room filled with the aching loneliness of the immigrant. .
‘Now, Mother, now.’
Gran leaned her hand on the piano as if sharing some weight and began to sing. The melody wept and ran around the room reaching longing arms, bare and lovely, first to the door then the window. Trapped, it sank in on itself, wrapping ghostly garments about its head, sobbing, sobbing. Overcome by its inescapable forlornness Matthew rushed to the window and pulled it open. Now it could escape into the pale-blue moonlight. It could wing with the soft moths and mingle with the dark perfumes that attracted them.
‘Oh, Gran!’ he cried. ‘Music is so beautiful. Is it always so sad?’
‘Often. Beauty is sad. John Keats said:
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu;’
‘Oh,’ sighed Margaret. ‘It is so romantic to be Irish.’
‘Only if you’re not in Ireland, Margaret. Have you forgotten how the British shot the Irish patriots after the Easter Rebellion and James Connolly, a wounded man. There is no romance in Ireland.’
But Margaret was lost in her dream of social acceptance.
‘Come to the soiree with us, Mother. You could sing. Your voice is still lovely. They’d call us “The Artistic Donahues” as well!’
Sarah shook her head. ‘I can’t applaud it, Margaret. I just can’t. Hypocrisy and police informers among us at home. Death or mutilation to thousands of young men overseas. It’s such an ugly war.’
Margaret was taking Matthew to the March Past. Another contingent of soldiers was leaving for Europe. It would be a wonderful show, she said. Everyone would be there. Sarah refused to join them.
‘Look,’ she said and spread the previous day’s paper on the table. ‘Look.’ And she pointed to where columns of names marched up and down a black-bordered page. ‘A few weeks and all those young soldiers you see today will be here. If their names are in heavy print they may be luckier than the ones who survive—mad, blind or legless.’
‘Well, they’ll go anyway, whether we go to the March Past or whether we don’t. I can’t change anything.’ And Margaret flounced out of the room. Gran went back to washing dishes and Matthew who was helping her dry up put his plate on the table and read some names aloud.
‘Why are all these names here, Gran?’
‘It’s the Casualty List.’
‘What’s a casualty?’
‘Someone injured or killed in the war.’
‘Are all these people dead?’
‘Many of them. And many very seriously hurt—wounded.’
‘How did they die, Gran?’
‘Shot probably—by other men—the so-called enemy.’
‘Where are they now then, Gran?’
‘In France. At Gallipoli. Somewhere in Europe where they never should have gone to fight a war that is none of Australia’s business. Sometimes, Matthew, when I see some poor shell-shocked creature driven insane
